At the "Elvis dying on the toilet" remark, he howls with laughter. "Christ, it really is! God, that's fucked. I didn't even think about that," he says through tapering chuckles.

She relaxes. The eyes diminish. Smaller, less. Imperfect, but less intense.

"Yeah, I can see my own marks," he says. "I try not to look too hard at 'em. It makes me... dwell. It's not worth it."

Red raw Desolation marks up around his neck, crimson stains of Flesh set deep into his hands, sickly spinning Vast at his temples, Stranger-shaped vivisection lines, Spiral snaking up his jawline, Buried seated heavily at his shoulders, and a big veined End mark that takes up his whole chest. Lonely sprawled out around his feet, lingering like a bad smell. He knows why they're there. He doesn't need to reminisce.

"No sense focus on the negative, right? It's in the past." Most of it.